So one thing acted and reacted upon another, and culminated upon the unhappy night in the boats.
Envying Ralph's pluck and heroism, admiring him for it; emulous of their comrades' appreciation of his gallant daring, he yet could not bring himself to imitate it, for he felt so afraid to die,—he dreaded so terribly what came after death, which he considered certain upon that raft.
He knew that he was not fit to die,—his whole ill-spent life rose up, in one instant, with awful clearness before his mental vision, and he dared not face its consequences. He believed in spite of himself, and his faith brought him nothing but fear.
He hung back, and then resented the plainly-expressed scorn of Kershaw and the sailors. Mellish, with the authority of captain delegated to him, stopped their taunts with a high hand, but was powerless to alter the expression of contempt upon their faces. Accustomed through all his early life to the surface respect paid to him as a gentleman's son, he could not bear the lack of deference now displayed by the men whom he regarded as his inferiors; and, when the watch was changed, and Kershaw yielded to him the tiller, saying, "Here, take the ropes, I suppose you aren't afraid of them," the climax was reached.
Half-frenzied with pride, anger, jealousy and fear, he drew out his knife, severed the rope without thought of anyone but his rival, saw in one flash that he had practically murdered six helpless and inoffensive fellow-creatures, and remorse seized him for a prey instantaneously.
No one in the boat suspected him, it was supposed that the rope was weak or rotten, and gave of itself from the strain upon it. A shark might have bitten it; no one knew what had happened exactly. Kirke, in horror at his own deed, called upon the others in the boat to turn her head, to row back, to search for the raft.
His agitation, the frantic energy with which he worked, redeemed him somewhat in his shipmates' eyes, but may have caused him to steer unequally, injudiciously, wide of his mark. However it happened, they could find no trace of the raft, and, though they did for a time hear the voices of the castaways raised on the breeze, the direction of the wind made their whereabouts uncertain, and the sound gradually ceased altogether.
Did that mean that they were gone? Drowned? Fled before God's judgment-seat, to be for ever witnesses against him? God knew that he did not mean this! But would He pardon?—could He pardon?
Still did the unhappy wretch maintain a sullen silence as to his deed. He could not confess, and those around him were kinder to him than usual, perceiving his sorrow, but ignorant as to its source.
Next day they were picked up by the steamer, and carried on to the Andamans. Everyone at Port Blair was kind to them, but the word "murder" seemed to be on the air.